


By Royal Appointment

by AetherSeer



Series: Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Engagement, Gen, M/M, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-12-20 21:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11930055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer
Summary: “A marriage is what you make of it. You can make a happy marriage, or you can make a miserable one.”





	By Royal Appointment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chartreuser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chartreuser/gifts).



The announcement of the treaty between Russia and Sweden—and Zhenya’s engagement to the Swedish prince—did not go well, Sasha reflects. Sure, the press conference had gone smoothly, but Sasha’s not blind. He noticed the pinched look on Zhenya’s face, and the tightness of his shoulders beneath his suit. And now, of course, he’s sweeping through his list of hiding places in the palace for his missing charge, who up and disappeared five minutes after the last reporter was escorted out.

The thing is, Sasha’s been looking out for Zhenya for years now. There are a lot of hiding places for a skinny 16-year-old in the Chelyabinsk palace, but only a few that Sasha can’t fit into anymore. And fewer still where no one would notice a visibly upset prince.

Sometimes, in moments like this, Sasha regrets hitting his growth spurt. The narrow crawl space above the empty carriage house mocks his broad shoulders and the hard-won muscle honed in the sparring circles. “Zhenya,” he tries.

“Go away. I don’t want to talk to you. You _lied_ to me,” Zhenya yells back. “You said I’d find someone—and now I won’t ever!”

The crawl space only goes back a few meters, but it’s far enough that Sasha won’t be able to reach in and drag Zhenya out. He sighs and sits with his back to the wall, facing away from the opening.

 

_“Evgeny fancies himself in love with you, you know.”_

_Sasha swallows. “Your Imperial Majesty—”_

_“Be kind when you break his heart.”_

_“I don’t understand, majesty.”_

_The Princess doesn’t look at him. She looks out at the flower gardens; watches her son laugh in the early light of spring. “He’s royalty, Alexander Mikhailovich. He doesn’t have the luxury of marrying for love, much less a commoner. So when you break his heart—and you must—be kind to my son.”_

_Sasha doesn’t have an answer, and he doubts the Princess expects one. The sun shines brightly; the prince remains oblivious to his mother’s request. And Sasha feels the cold grip of reality settle into his bones as he prepares to stop Zhenya’s stumbling, shy flirtations in their tracks._

 

Sasha runs a hand through his hair, and lets his head rest against the wall. “A marriage is what you make of it,” he says. “You can make a happy marriage, or you can make a miserable one.”

“I don’t even know this guy. What if he’s old? Or ugly? Or mean?”

Well, that’s something Sasha can do. “Want to go find out?”

Zhenya’s quiet for a moment. “How?” he asks.

 

The palace library’s records aren’t the most up-to-date, but Sasha locates the register denoting the Swedish royalty quickly enough. Zhenya crowds him, wanting a better look as Sasha flips to the back pages. “Do you know the name of your consort-to-be?”

“Andre,” Zhenya says.

Andre Burakovsky, fifth-in-line for the Swedish throne, is even younger than Zhenya. According to his birthdate, he’s 13 now, but the photo in the register shows a chubby-cheeked 7-year-old. Sasha reflects that perhaps the Internet would’ve been a better resource when Zhenya’s mouth twists unhappily. “I don’t want to marry a child.”

“You’re not that far from a child yourself,” Sasha points out. “And you won’t be getting married right away. You still have years to get to know one another.”

“But I’m not—” Zhenya starts. “I don’t—it’s not like Mama and Papa. They loved each other. What if I don’t love him?”

Sasha chooses his next words carefully. “If you cannot love him, it’s not the worst thing in the world to have a best friend, you know. He didn’t choose this either.”

Zhenya’s mouth purses. Sasha waits. The prince’s emotions can get the better of him, but he’s not unintelligent.

“Does this mean I have to learn Swedish?” Zhenya complains.

Sasha scrubs a calloused hand over the prince’s close-cropped hair, earning himself an indignant squawk. “Worse,” he answers. “This means we _both_ have to learn Swedish.”

 

Sasha actually meets Zhenya’s husband-to-be first. Rather, he trips over the Swedish prince—literally—in the hallways of the Moscow palace. Sasha _does not_ expect the kid to freeze, stare wide-eyed at Sasha, scream, and run away. Further _into_ the palace at that. So Sasha gives chase.

He catches up right before the kid hits the kitchens, whisking the kid out of the way of the kitchen staff. He keeps ahold of the kid’s arm this time, though, and takes a minute to catch his breath. “What are you doing here? And who _are_ you?”

He gets a blank stare in return. Maybe English?

“Who are you?”

The kid straightens up and looks Sasha in the eye, which is impressive given the height difference. “Prince Andre Burakovsky, son of the Duchess Pernilla of Skåne and Prince Consort Robert Burakovsky.”

Sasha mentally winces. Not the best first impression he could’ve made with Zhenya’s future spouse. Prince Andre Burakovsky has all the gangliness of a recent growth spurt. If Sasha looks closely enough, he can see the resemblance to the photo he showed Zhenya beneath the mop of wild curls.

“Alexander Mikhailovich,” he returns. “Your Highness not supposed to be near kitchens.”

“Kitchens?” Rather than being suitably chastened by Sasha’s disapproval, the kid visibly perks up. “Do Russians have good cake?”

“Russia has _best_ cakes. You like sweet foods?” Sasha asks. He gets wide, imploring eyes and rapid nodding in response.

“You stay here, then. Out from under shoes. No moving, or no cakes for runaway princes.”

The prince seems cheerful enough now that Sasha’s caught him, but Sasha keeps an eye on him while chatting up the cook. She shoos him away, but not before he liberates a handful of _vatrushka_. The prince seems to like the sugary treat, in any case. It certainly disappears fast enough.

Sasha steers them both toward the wing of the palace where he’d heard the Swedish visitors were staying, hoping he runs into a friendly face sooner rather than later.

Instead, Andre yanks himself free and speeds off again. This time, Andre’s caught by a serious-faced blond, who listens to Andre’s excited chatter with intense focus before catching Sasha’s eye. Sasha’s reminded of the collection at the Butterfly House—only _he’s_ the one pinned under glass.

Sasha walks away without a word.

 

It backfires on him, of course, because that’s how Sasha’s life just is. The formal meeting between Zhenya and Andre goes off without a hitch, but the pair disappear afterward for a frantic two hours. Frantic, that is, for Sasha and the rest of the security staff. The princes, when they find them snacking in the side kitchens, are perfectly calm.

Sasha’s inwardly pleased that they seem to have overcome any shyness, but he’s also furious at Zhenya for ducking his watch. Zhenya meets Sasha’s eyes; raises his chin defiantly.

“I had to meet him for myself, away from everyone else,” Zhenya says in Russian. Sasha has no idea how much Russian either Andre or his blond bodyguard speak—neither he nor Zhenya speak Swedish _well_ , although Sasha’s been informed the prince is at least passable in his pronunciation.

“I understand your point. I hope you understand mine when I say it is unseemly for a prince to risk the safety of both himself and his fiance for an afternoon snack. I can arrange for privacy—in a _safe_ location—should you wish it. There’s no call for you to cause a mass panic. Your mother was worried, and the Swedes are not pleased.”

Zhenya visibly winces. Sasha doesn’t flinch. The prince has a habit of disappearing for hours on end, and it needs to stop before someone takes advantage of that and _makes_ him disappear for good. Sasha contemplates, not for the first time, installing a tracking device in Zhenya’s shoes rather than his cellphone. It would make his life _so_ much easier when Zhenya ditches the phone in favor of hiding.

The Swedes, for their part, aren’t actually listening to Sasha and Zhenya. Prince Andre looks close to tears as his bodyguard scolds him in rapid Swedish. Sasha doesn’t understand a single word, yet he can’t look away. He gives himself a little shake, just in time to see Zhenya’s dawning comprehension. _Fuck_.


End file.
